Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(24)

Grier approached the dowager and babbled an excuse. “I’m afraid I’m still wearied from travel, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” her hostess clucked. “According to your father the journey north was quite the trial. No wonder you’re wearied.”

“I shall stay on a bit longer.” Cleo settled herself down on the sofa beside the dowager.

With a murmured good night for all, Grier lifted her skirts and departed the room. Her fingers caressed the deep green silk of her skirts as she moved up the stairs. The modiste insisted she wear deep, lush colors—that bold colors would complement her coloring. But tonight, beside the light and pastel colors of the other young ladies, she’d felt obtrusive.

It was as though she were proclaiming herself different. The older groom-hunting female with unfortunate dusky skin and unfortunate auburn hair that could hardly be contained in its pins. She despised this feeling of being somehow . . . less. She’d never thought anything was wrong with her before, contrary to the stinging remarks her neighbors made about her.

She genuinely liked who she was. She didn’t want to change. Even after she married, she’d still be herself. She would find a gentleman who didn’t mind that he’d married a woman who steered clear of needlepoint and watercolors. The prince would never be that man.

Her steps slowed as she approached the study. Male laughter rumbled from the parted doors. She couldn’t help peering within the male-only sanctuary.

She told herself it was simply curiosity. That she was not looking for anyone in particular. Her gaze swept over the half-dozen assembled gentlemen sitting in the smoke-fogged room. The prince stood near the hearth. Ever his stern, unsmiling self, he seemed at ease, if not a bit bored in his setting.

Her father’s jarring voice was instantly recognizable. Her gaze sought and spotted him—the precise moment he caught sight of her. She jerked back into motion, hastening down the corridor. She didn’t make it very far before she heard her name.

With a deep breath, she turned and faced Jack.

He approached, his expression stormy. “Grier? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why aren’t you with the rest of the ladies?”

She released a heavy breath. “I’m tired.”

His eyes flashed. “Tired? You can sleep later. You agreed—”

“Yes,” she snapped. “You needn’t remind me. I’m to court the dowager’s grandson and any other gentleman of worthy rank.” Her voice sounded as tired as she suddenly felt. “I can do that well enough tomorrow. I won’t even see the gentlemen again until then. It’s just the ladies in the drawing room.”

He motioned wildly behind him. “You should be in there with Cleo cozying up to the dowager, winning her over so that she pushes her grandson into proposing!”

“Fear not,” she bit out, feeling the heat creep up her face. “I’ll get a proposal. Some fine lord desperate for funds won’t pass up the fortune you’re offering. Who I am, what I am, or how I behave won’t overly signify. If it did, neither one of us would have been permitted past the gates.”

He rubbed his hands together with excitement, not registering her bitter tone. “It is splendid. We’re actually at a house party with the Crown Prince of Maldania! I never thought such a day would arrive.” His gaze snapped back to her. “You need to put on your best performance. A fat dowry alone won’t do the trick with these swells. Use your feminine wiles. You’re your mother’s daughter. You must have some skill in that arena.”

The heat in her face was blistering now. His words shouldn’t sting her—her skin was tougher than that—but they did. “Don’t speak of my mother.”

He shrugged. “I’ve a right to do so. After all, she and I were—”

“Another word on the subject and I’ll leave.” She knew next to nothing of her mother’s relationship with Jack Hadley and she preferred to keep it that way. The knowledge that they conceived her was enough. She wanted to keep the stories Papa told her about her mother as her only facts. Not whatever sordid tale Jack would spin.

Jack puffed his chest and tugged at his waistcoat. “You need to make your mind up if you really want to do this.”

“I do!”

“Then make yourself amenable and stop being such a contrary creature.” He looked her up and down. “Aside of my fortune there’s not much to recommend you to this lot.”

“Nor you,” she bit back. “You eat your soup like a pig at a trough.”

For a moment it looked like he might explode at her, but then a grin split his weathered face. “Yes, I’ve my share of flaws. Perhaps that’s what makes us family. As ourselves, we’re thoroughly defective.” Without another word he turned and left her standing in the corridor.

Defective. The word sat like a boulder in her stomach. Yes, that’s how the prince probably saw her. In that moment, she wished she’d never met her father. Never discovered just who he was. The mystery of him that she’d lived with for most of her life was better than this reality.

But then Trevis swam before her eyes and she recalled that she’d come because she had to. There had been nothing left for her in Wales. She couldn’t have remained on as Trevis’s game master after everything.

Her fate rested in her hands now.